


Guardian

by elizeal, Lesolitaire, StarpunkD



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Het, Psychology, Side Story, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizeal/pseuds/elizeal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesolitaire/pseuds/Lesolitaire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarpunkD/pseuds/StarpunkD
Summary: When Jesus came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe, Pilate said to them, “Here is the man!” As soon as the chief priests and officers saw Him, they shouted, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” “Take Him and crucify Him yourselves,” Pilate replied, “for I find no basis for a charge against Him.” (John 19:5)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizeal/gifts).
  * A translation of [Guardian](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/234158) by Lesolitaire. 



> Some AU and OOC are there.  
> My own russian text, translated into English by elizeal and edited by LoonyFred, special thanks to this two. Guys, you are amazing!  
> Written to Alexandra, and inspirated by DarkEleni's video. Many thanks for burning my heart :D

_You, you in the chaos feigning sane_  
_You who has pushed beyond what's humane_  
_Them as the ghostly tumbleweed_  
_And where was your watchman then?_  
  
  
  
"The girl's eyes are shut and she does not see what is in front of her. Nor does she see what is behind. The girl feels the obstacle and does nothing about it."   
  
The girl who was in the middle of a sword training snorted and with anger, blew off a lock which had stuck to her forehead.   
  
"The hair hinders me," she complained. "It only causes trouble."   
  
"It's easier for the girl to change her appearance with long hair. The girl should understand it".   
  
Irritated, he girl dropped her sword and walked past the man, brushing his face with her hair, lightly, — but he caught her smile. A sharp one, barely touching her lips, glistening on her beautiful teeth.   
  
A wolfish smile.   
  
The man could only gaze after her and sigh.   
  
  
***   
  
Madness reigned over him day and night, morning and evening, at dawn and at the darkest hour that only happens before it. He had already forgotten what it was like, and this old-new knowledge burned through him, as if he had drunk a handful of the evening shade.   
  
He got used to watching her. He had been her shadow for a long time, and could now recognize her steps, her breath, her scent. For some insane moment he himself became a wolf prowling for her tracks — there was no other way. The girl possessed his thoughts and mind, and it happened for the first time in many years, this weird half-forgotten feeling tickling under his ribs, utterly pleasant, reverberating with delightful jolts somewhere beneath his throat, near his collarbones.   
  
The man used to have a woman. The man used to have a mother. The man used to have a sister... or did he really? The man could not remember anything from that time before he had given up his face, thoughts and feelings. The very instant he had left all his past at the feet of the Many-Faced God, he had also left his memories. Even the feelings he had ever experienced had been abandoned, and now he could not describe what was happening to him. It seemed like he had become a teenage boy, sick and tossing, and it did not reflect well on a Faceless Man.   
  
"What's wrong?" the girl asked him, and he straightened.   
  
"Everything," the Faceless Man replied and came closer to his apprentice. "What I taught the girl let her recall. She thinks quite a lot and it hinders." He grabbed her wrists and pressed himself against her back. "The man controls the moves and the girl is tense. Lighter, sharper, more careful." 

He led her arms and she held her breath without resisting him. "Let the girl leave her strength. It's not needed now. Let the girl dance and spout water out of those unworthy of it. The girl needs to dance the way she used to. The man knows she can. Do it again, the man will hold you."   
  
The girl breathed out and did a lunge. The cloth on the mannequin bubbled, torn by the sword point, some woodchips fell out.   
  
"Good," the Faceless Man whispered. "That's right. The girl recalls it fast. Let her do it more often."   
  
She laughed, moved away softly, pierced the mannequin a few times more and then sprang back taking the stance of a Water Dancer. The mannequin she had been cutting “groaned” piteously in the storm of blows and fell on the side dropping its contents.   
  
"That's right. Everything's correct. The lesson is over, the girl may go. Who are you, child?"   
  
"No one." The girl whistled rakishly and flipped her sword. "A girl has no name."   
  
She walked away, her gait dancing, and looked right into the Man’s eyes, before her steps quieted in the echoing labyrinth of the halls.   
  
Now left alone, the Faceless Man began coughing. "Arya, Arya is my name," her eyes said. "It rolls on the tongue like four black pearls and flies off the lips, light and smooth like a sea wave. Arya is my name, the Man, remember and repeat it, seal it upon your heart, for soon no one but you will know it."   
  
Only then did he realize he was aroused, and it astounded him more than anything before in his life.   
  
  
***   
  
He called her the Girl or Wolfling out of habit. Besides, the latter nickname described her the best, this little spitfire born as a noble lady, a herit of one of the Great Houses in Westeros. All these years of training she had been the Girl, nameless as many of others.   
  
He always called her that way, untill the day he felt an unusual scent coming from her body. A heavy earthen smell, spine-tingling, nothing like others. The smell of blood.   
  
"A maiden came to the man, and the man welcomes her," he said to her the next day. She frowned and gave him a sullen look.   
  
"Why did you call me a maiden?"   
  
"Walked away as a girl yesterday, came back as a maiden today," he replied and saw fear swashing in her eyes. "The girl is not a child anymore and the man feels it."   
  
"I don't want it." Despair in her voice made him feel uneasy. Wolfling hugged her shoulders, slumped, looking like a tiny sparrow with a broken leg. "I don't want to be a maiden. It only causes trouble, I don't want it, you hear me? Call me the old way. Please."   
  
"As the girl wishes," he said then, and she sighed with a faint grateful smile. "It's time for a lesson. The girl must blow a candle, silently, so that no one could hear it."   
  
He watched her attempts, the way she pursed her lips and breathed out gently so that she could not be heard. He watched her hands and hair, every movement of her fingers, and it felt like a tangle of wet and slippery Dornish snakes twining inside him. The tangle rolled and pressed into him, painfully pulsing in his crotch.   
  
The man didn't like it, the half-forgotten feelings had no credibility and made him freeze, listening cautiously and vigilantly watching so that nobody could see his dismay.   
  
No one, especially the girl.   
  
  
***   
  
The woman he came to late in the night was doing domestic chores. She was wiping wooden surfaces and washing dishes; she was drinking from a cup of fine porcelain, she was humming quietly, her voice hoarse, and did not seem to care about what was going on around, but when he slipped into her window, sneaky like a shadow, she stood still and grinned with the corner of her lips, and he felt her grin even though he was standing behind her.   
  
"The man came to the woman," she exhaled without stopping her business. "The woman gladly welcomes the Faceless Man. May her home be open for him. Take some bread, it's on the table."   
  
The Faceless Man grabbed a hunk of bread, and only after he had taken a bite, the woman turned to him. A young woman, with short wavy hair and eyes of a strange color, watched his every move, and her relaxed easy pose revealed genuine calm. She did not fear him, even though he could be her murderer.   
  
"The woman gained the right to have her name, why would not she use it?" the Faceless Man asked gibingly.   
  
"The man gained this right, too," she replied with a silver laugh that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. "Why would not he say his name?"   
  
He did not answer. The woman gave out a sigh.   
  
"The man's heart beats fast. His knees are weak and his palms are numb. The man can not eat or drink, thoughts are running through his head," she noted quietly. "The woman knows the reason why the man came to her. The woman can not help."   
  
"Yes, she can," he replied. "The man brought someone who needs to be taught the Water Dance."   
  
"The woman does not remember the Water Dance," she said sharply. "The only thing the woman can do for

this child is to teach her how to make moon tea."   
  
"The woman will do this," the man said tightly and the girl came from behind his back. "And she will do it now. Or should the woman be reminded of something else she had forgotten besides the Water Dance?"   
  
The silence between them could easily be cut in halves and sold on the market. The woman looked calmly into the man's eyes, but her lips curled sarcastically.   
  
"The woman will do what the Faceless Man tells her to," she whispered bitterly and bit her right thumb. "Listen carefully, child. The woman has never told this to anyone and will only do it once."   
  
She took the girl aside. They spoke long and quietly while the Faceless Man was watching them with half-open eyes.   
  
"She did what you asked her to," said the girl some time later and came to her mentor. "We should go. Thank you."   
  
"That's right," the woman replied quietly. "The child will come to the woman again, and the child knows when it's time."   
  
The man nodded to her and bowed. The woman bowed in reply.   
  
"Valar morghulis," she said under her breath and brought three fingers to her cheek. "The woman owes the Faceless Man no more."   
  
  
***   
  
The girl learnt and could do more than he was capable of at her age. Other people's faces seemed to grow into her own by themselves, she could tell poisons by their scent and colour, during the training years she had changed so much that no one could recognize her in her birthplace, even her own father and mother. The girl's gait became slinky like a cat's, she almost melted into shades on the wall and the ground, and sometimes she could even catch the Faceless Man off guard.   
  
He looked at her like he had been many years before, watched her intently for minutes and hours, her changed figure and long hair. He looked at her face, which she refused to change into someone else's in rare idle hours, watched her movements, felt her breath on his skin and recalled. He recalled the moment in his childhood, before devoting his life to the Many-Faced God, when he had found himself at the tournament in Harrenhal. He also recalled a woman he had seen that time, the one who had become an apple of discord to all the Seven Kingdoms the very moment a blonde white-faced prince put a wreath of indigo roses onto her lap. The man did not remember her name, but he did remember her face, and each day the same face was in front of his eyes.   
  
It could be seen with half an eye that the girl and that woman were as like as two peas in a pod. It seemed like the dead one was born again and gave her face to the girl, sacrificed it like many other nameless people coming to the Temple for the great gift. A keen eye, however, kept catching more and more new features which in no way could have belonged to that woman at the tournament. A rounded forehead. Light grey eyes. Her chin was sharper than the other. The girl looked like that woman and was different from her at the same time. She was beautiful, but her beauty was wildish and sharp like that very blue rose weaved into the wreath of the queen of love and beauty.   
  
"Lyanna," the man whispered with somehow dry lips. "Lyanna Stark. That was the name of the beauty."   
  
"The girl is not Lyanna," an internal voice replied. "The girl's name is Arya. Arya Stark of Winterfell, Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface, Arya Wolfling. Nice girl, radiant girl, sweet girl, seven-and-ten years old, how fast she has become a young woman."   
  
Nicknames came from nowhere and went back there. The man could not tell how he knew all that, nor why he was feeling that painful tension in his crotch. He did not like these sensations, they strang him up and did not let him think straight, as if a teenage boy took over his body again, hysterical, proud and eager after female beauty. He hadn't been feeling this way for a very long time, despite being a man.   
  
Nor could he help it.   
  
"I've been to that woman's," her voice sounded close to him all of a sudden, and the man was secretely glad his robe and cape covered his embarassement safely. The girl stood within easy reach jolting a big red apple with her palm. "She said I'm ready."   
  
The man closed his eyes and smiled.   
  
"That is true, sweet girl," he replied. "The girl is ready for the initiation. But before that..."   
  
He did not finish as the girl gave him the apple.   
  
"What before that?" she asked.   
  
"Before that the girl must make three sacrifices." The Faceless Man took the apple, slightly touching her palm with his fingers. "She needs to change what she has, leave what will return to her and give what she was born with for the first time in her life. When she does it, she will be the Faceless Woman."   
  
"Give?" the little She-wolf asked. "What and to whom do I need to give?"   
  
"The girl must figure it herself," the man replied to her. "It is important that the sacrifice is voluntary. It is a free decision."   
  
"I'll think it over. Thank you for the clue," the she-wolf chuckled and headed to the statue of the Stranger with a dancing gait.   
  
The man picked at the apple, admired the satin gloss of its skin, wiped it and took a bite.   


The apple was sweet.  
  
***   
  
Restful minutes hung unbearably heavy.   
  
The man gave a displeased snort and stretched out, his numb spinal bones cracked towardly and his neck became rubbery for an instant. The Faceless Man cringed from this unpleasant sensation and pulled the rope to pour some hot water into the huge tub.   
  
The water was steaming and the man sank into it up to his neck, eyes closed. He did not want to think or see, nor did he want to hear or feel, just flow with the water somewhere far away, leaving everything that kept him on earth. He wanted to be fast like a river, quiet like a flow, silent like a shadow, and swim... swim...   
  
A rustle nearby did not make him open his eyes. Even though a quiver went down his spine like a scratchy wave, his surprise was stronger than this.   
  
"Why has the girl come here?" asked the Faceless Man under his breath. "Why does she shatter the man's calm?"   
  
"I brought you something"  the girl replied and only then did he open his eyes.   
  
She stood in front of him, cut hair swept and stuck to her neck, eyes fogged, lips open from heat. Naked, surprisingly small and fragile without clothes, confused and helpless, nevertheless she shot fire into him with eyes full of desperate determination, painful even.   
  
"Sweet girl," voice failed its master and the man spoke hoarsely. "Sweet girl, kind girl. The man refuses. He did not ask for it and the girl should not..."   
  
"It's not for you to decide," she snapped out bending over him and leant her arms against the tub's fence, leaving no way to escape. "Out of the question." She got into the tub and stood on her knees hanging over the Faceless Man. "You said I could give what I had been born with. Give what I had been bearing all my life. I made my decision and chose the one I want to give it to. Don't you dare refuse! The Many-Faced God is aware and has accepted my sacrifice."   
  
"Valar dohaeris," the man could only think absentmindedly before choking on his own breath as the girl came down on him with a short piteous scream.  
  
"The Many-Faced God has accepted the sacrifice," he thought evily and dug fingers into her buttocks. The she-wolf just spread her legs wider and leaned forward with a long lingering moan. The man gave a short sigh and moved in reply, penetrating the churly body very, very roughly. The girl only smiled when bloody streaks appeared in the water.   
  
He could hardly remember that night, only that at some point the girl bit his shoulder. He also remembered the floor all flooded with water when they had finally broken apart, wet, weak and trembling. He had kept her on the trot, she had refused to back down, and they had exhausted themselves and each other, and thinking about it was somehow embarassing, hot and wet. The snakes in his stomach were finally churring with satisfaction, accepting the precious sacrifice, drinking its blood.   
  
"Have I already become no one?" she asked wrapping the coat around her and dangling her feet while he was mopping the poured water with a rag. "Have I become the Faceless?"   
  
Only that moment did the man throw the rag on the floor and gave her a new, completely sheer look, an understanding, all-consuming, all-forgiving one.   
  
"No," he replied quietly and pressed his lips to the white rounded forehead. "The girl is still Arya Stark."   
  
The moment her name escaped his lips like four black pearls it seemed to him like his soul had left him as well. When giving him what she had been born with the girl unconsciously enchained him to herself with her blood.   
  
The girl took this soul into her arms and pressed to her chest.   
  
  
_I'll be your keeper for life as your guardian_  
_I'll be your warrior of care, your first warden_  
_I'll be your angel on call, I'll be on demand_  
_The greatest honor of all as your guardian._


End file.
